I miss that feeling you get when you find yourself attracted to someone. Not that my life is a barren no mans land. There is after all the arrogant Italian, who even if he wasn’t gorgeous -as it seems all Italians are- I would still probably find attractive just for his attire alone. Then there is the adorable and adorably awkward but charming German boy who blushes every time I look at him like a bride on her wedding night. Finally there is as always a whole host of lovely French boys, and we all know how I feel about the French.
But I miss that butterflies in stomach, nervous, pink gooey feeling. Before I go any further I should clarify that I am a hideous, uncontrollable flirt. If flirting was a competition I would win medals in the sport. I will also pretty much try and flirt my way through any situation. Terrible, I know, possibly a-moral and my inner feminist must be in tears. But, if I can get a free coffee in the morning just by fluttering my eyelashes and smiling like I have no brain, I’ll do it, no need to ask me twice.
But I miss that feeling you get when you really like someone. That pulse racing, nerve wracking stage that happens early on. When everything is still very chaste plenty of stolen glances, loaded exchanges and the odd lingering look from across a crowded room. That is what I miss. When your so head-over-heels for somebody that the possibility of flirting doesn’t even occur to you because you’re too busy trying to recall how to breath, let alone speak.
Every outfit is evaluated before being worn and every sentence rehearsed six or seven times before it ever leaves your mouth.
Frankly, no amount of blushing youths and cocky Italians can really make up for that…
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